


State of Love and Trust/As I Busted Down the Pretext

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you know exactly what your brother's thinking, there are some chances you just don't take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	State of Love and Trust/As I Busted Down the Pretext

**Author's Note:**

> Remix of [dreamlittleyo's](http://dreamlittleyo.livejournal.com) lovely [In Thee](http://dreamlittleyo.livejournal.com/11664.html).  
> Thanks to [rejeneration](http://rejeneration.livejournal.com) and [rivers_bend](http://rivers_bend.livejournal.com) for the betas and the motivation!

_Get off of 30 around Twin Falls_, Dean's thinking, hand twitching over the steering wheel, nervous fingers drumming out sharp rhythms. _Get off 30 in Twin Falls, cut up north through Jerome, 26 goes through Gooding. Back on 30 around Bliss or King Hill and Boise by morning, or maybe just get on 84, 84, 8-4_, three taps of his thumb and two of his index finger, ring-pinkie-ring before starting over.

"Come on, man," Sam sighs, stares at the pale white of Dean's knuckles, blue zigzag of vein under the skin. "I know you hate Idaho, but could you be a little more obvious about it? I don't think the guy in the next lane's got it yet."

"I got nothing against Idaho," Dean says, but stills his hand, lets his fingers go quiet. _Just Buhl. Should've seen it coming, fuck_.

Buhl, Idaho, population 4000 on a good day, Trout Capital of the World. Home of the Thousand Springs Scenic Byway and the Winchesters when Sam waved his Stanford acceptance letter in John's face, _full ride, and I'm going_. Sam starts in his seat, watches Dean's fingers clutch at the gearshift. Dean remembers that fight a lot better than Sam does; it's surprising, but it really shouldn't be.

_Get off 30 around Twin Falls_, Dean thinks again, _avoid Buhl like the plague, cut around through Jerome instead_. "I'm telling you, we're driving all the way to Boise for something that's gonna end up being some kid sleepwalking and freaking his sister out."

"I really don't think so," Sam sighs, ignoring the rest, _fuckin' Buhl. Fuckin' Idaho. Back on 30 around King Hill and Boise by morning_. Sam presses his lips shut, tight, feels the scrape of teeth over skin. It's really hard sometimes, so hard not to scream, Jesus, Dean, shut the fuck up. I can hear you.

\--

He doesn't hear every single one of Dean's thoughts. Most of the time, it's scraps, just like it is with everyone else. Like a radio in the middle of nowhere suddenly catching a frequency and just as quickly losing it. _...five more hours to go, fucking double shift_ from the kid pumping gas in Mount Holly. _Carry the two, should have just enough left for the six-pack_ surging through the woman in the cereal aisle and winking out. A low, buzzing hum from every face on the street before all the sounds but the ones they're all meant to hear go still.

It started not too long after the visions, stray words he knew nobody said out loud. But unlike the visions, Sam's temples aching, his skull feeling like it's ready to split open -- and one memorable time, blood dripping hot and thick from his nose -- the words he gets for free. And unlike the visions, this _gift_ isn't anything he's too eager to tell Dean about. Because when you know exactly what your brother's thinking, there are some chances you just don't take.

\--

_Sugar_, his brother's thinking, _sugar and strawberries_, sweet mouth and small, sure hands tugging his zipper down. Lipstick smeared red and messy around the girl's mouth when she lifted her face from his dick, wiped her lips with her palm, pink tongue wetting it down. Dean's still a little drunk, even after the walk back to their room, and so is Sam, which is why he opens his mouth, lets the words tumble out. He doubts he would have said them sober.

"Jesus, Dean, do you ever think with anything other than your dick?"

Dean shrugs, sliding the keycard into the slot, pulls the door open and flips the light switch.

"Dude, I deserve some downtime." He sits on his bed, springs creaking fitfully under his weight, and starts unlacing his boots.

"You could at least use more plausible stories. Come on, Dean, talent scout? _Shark diver_?"

Dean pulls off one boot and starts on the other, tugging at the knotted, fraying laces.

"So, what, I should stick closer to the truth? That's some smart thinking, Sammy," he grunts, socked foot pushing down on his boot heel. _Tried that already; wanted Cassie to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me _God_. Worked like a fuckin' Chinese charm_.

The boot comes off with a thud, the shoelace popping, and Dean swears, balls up his socks and sends them sailing after.

"I should, what, let them get to know me?" _Not gonna happen, not again. Not with anyone, and not with you. You're never, never, ever gonna know_. "Nah, Sam. I tell them stupid shit. And you know why it works? Because it's what they fucking want to hear."

Dean pulls the striped blanket down, yanks at the tightly tucked sheet.

"You still need the light?"

"No," Sam says, undoing his own buttons. He stretches out on his bed in the dark and closes his eyes. Listens to the word, twisting, snake-like, around his brother's mind.

\---

It's always there. Under the _damn, that's gonna need stitches_ and the _can't forget to send the card applications out tomorrow_, _use your blinker, asshole_ and _coffee needs more sugar_, it's hitching onto everything, _Sam, Sam, Sam_, hot and guilty, making Dean's head and his dick throb.

Because what Dean really wishes for -- what he wants, every minute of every day -- is laced with guilt all the way down. It's _no-bad-wrong_ with a twist of nausea through his guts as much as it is _please-Sam-please_, pulse hammering and fingers dancing over the buckle of his belt.

Dean wants to find Dad. Dean wants to kill the demon. Dean wants Sam, and has from long before the moment Sam finally realizes it.

\---

_Sam. Sammy. Sam_.

He's heard it for so long -- days, weeks, months -- that it's almost started to feel normal. It's ever-present, a constant, like Dean's pulse, or the solid weight of his gun in its holster. Dean walks, Dean breathes, Dean sings off key, in the car and in the shower. Dean flirts, polishes his knives, orders burgers and fries for breakfast. Dean wants.

And sometimes, Dean, who has no illusions about anything, who thinks he'll be dead long before he hits 40, who believes in ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night, but doesn't believe in god or the fairy godmother -- sometimes, his brother hopes.

_That's_ the worst thing about it.

Dean hopes. Sometimes, when he can't even admit it to himself, burying it in jumble of other thoughts -- he hopes. Enumerates every grin, every gesture, every twitch Sam sends his way, and Sam hates the hitch of his breath, the soft flutter of his lashes. Sam hates himself for making Dean feel like this, for the shy, disbelieving gleam in his eyes when Sam hands him his coffee and their fingers brush. Like a girl, like he'd blush if he wasn't controlling himself, tight, careful walls built up, brick by brick.

Sam hates that he can see right through them.

_Sam. Jesus, fuck, Sam_.

He's heard it so often that he can't help but wonder sometimes, if maybe there's something wrong with him for not feeling it, too.

\---

His brother is good looking. Attractive. Maybe even pretty, if you listen to some of the comments he seems to invite. Sam's always known that, just like he's known that countless women -- and men -- find him irresistible, _shark diver, casting director_, shuttle _pilot_. Aim to fuck him like getting him in bed is some kind of prize, like birthday and Christmas come early, complete with bragging rights and drinks on the house.

_Fuckin' hot_ from the guy at the pool table, red shirt and large hands clutching a pool cue.

_...wonder who gets to take_ that _home_ from the girl in the tight black jeans, mouth wrapping reflexively around her beer bottle.

Scraps of lurid want crowding the air all around Dean, and Sam wonders if maybe he's missing something. Missing out, not being a part of the throng.

\---

He makes Dean pull over in Oklahoma, green grass and yellow dots of flowers sprinkled throughout, field stretching all around them. Lone puff of a cloud crawling slowly across the blue above.

"Dude, breathe," he says, poking a finger at the tense line of Dean's shoulders. "It's too nice to spend the whole damn day in the car. Trust me, a little bit of nature's not gonna kill you."

It doesn't take too much to get Dean out of his coat, to stretch it out in the grass like a picnic blanket with buttons.

_Pastoral. Pertaining to life in the country. Rural -- rustic -- something about charm and simplicity, damn Sammy and his SAT prep, wonder what the hell I forgot to make room for that information_.

Sam chuckles to himself, watching Dean roll over, surly mouth relaxing as Dean looks at the sky, blinking owlishly at the brightness. Dean's cheeks are pink, blushing or burning, Sam can't tell, but the color makes his freckles stand out, spots of sun over the bridge of his nose. Dean's hair looks prickly, gelled little spikes over his forehead, and Sam wonders if it really is like that all over, or if it's softer on the back of his neck, around his temples.

Dean's nodded off, jacket bunched up under his cheek, and Sam reaches out a tentative hand, feels the stray strand falling over his forehead. It's soft, just like the shorter trimmed fuzz right above his ear, and maybe that should mean something, but does it?

He drags his fingers lower, traces the line of Dean's cheekbone. Moves onto his side and slides closer, his elbow pressing into Dean's sleeve.

_What am I feeling_, he asks himself, warm skin under his fingertips, the shallow rise and fall of Dean's chest, inhale, exhale, quiet and careful.

"Sammy," Dean mutters, half-asleep, groggy eyes blinking open, and Sam stretches, quickly, theatrically, making sure the touch looks accidental, drowsy fingers knocking unintentionally against sun-warmed flesh.

He still feels Dean shiver.

\---

Sam fakes sleep in the car, spreads his knees out on the bench, jeans pulling tight over his thighs. Invading Dean's space and making no apologies.

He ignores the warning, rational voice in his head, reminding him that this is not a science experiment or a voyage of self-discovery, this is his brother. _Brother, brother, brother_, Dean echoes silently from the driver's side, mouth shut tight in a grim, tense line.

Sam sighs, shifting, lets his head droop down the leather, closer, lower, until Dean's shoulder is his pillow, harsh fabric of his shirt scratchy under Sam's chin.

\---

Dean's walls, they get better sometimes. Higher, thicker. New bricks going up lightning quick, like Dean suspects something. Yet he never says a word out loud, only his thoughts moving faster, faster, wrapping new layers over the pulse of _Sam_. _One Mississippi, two Mississippi, mile fourteen, mile fifteen, that's the fifth Georgia license plate I've seen today. This is how you change a spark plug. This is how you strip down a gun. An EMF meter. Connect the relays -- two, three, four -- two more cards and I have a straight, but what's the other guy holding_, and Sam pushes harder, searches out cracks in the hasty brickwork and slithers in.

_Sam, Sam, Sam_, buried deep, and he knows he's safe. Dean doesn't suspect a thing. Dean only fears.

Hope, guilt and fear -- since when have they become the normal he measures everything against?

\---

Dean thinks about Cassie a lot after she calls; everything from regret to anger to barely repressed what ifs, almost loud enough to drown everything else out completely.

She smiles tiredly at Dean as they sit in her living room. Dean smiles back, and it's not that Sam wasn't expecting it; it's not that he's jealous, but it's an angry thump in his gut all the same. "Gonna stay and catch up a bit, Sammy; don't wait up."

He's not jealous like he wants to be there in her spot jealous, Dean's hands, Dean's mouth, _wonder who gets to take that home_. But Cassie had Dean once already, had him and pushed him away just as he started to get serious, just as he started to wonder about the possibilities. Just as he got involved enough to trust her.

Sam watches them closely over morning coffee, looking for any sign that she wants him to stay this time. Searches for marks on Dean's skin, prints, teeth or mouth. Stares at the pleased crook of Dean's lips, the way the skin around his eyes crinkles, freckles trading places as she punches her number into his phone's memory.

_You want _me, _I know you do,_ Sam almost snaps. _Why are you letting her do this?_

He can't help feeling the sharp, gleeful stab of satisfaction when they drive away from Cape Girardeau like they do from any other town, and Dean shifts gears and doesn't look back.

\---

Sam brushes against him first thing in the morning, in and out of the bathroom, coming too quick through the door. Sets up his toothbrush and shaving kit on the sink before Dean is done, bumps his knee into Dean's leg, morning-bare skin, Dean undressed save for tee shirt and boxers.

Ten fleeting, brief touches before they leave the room. Two more on the way to the diner. Fingers lingering too long passing the salt, the napkins, the silverware. He steals bacon from Dean's plate even though he hates the way Dean drowns it in syrup alongside his pancakes. Takes a sip from Dean's coffee cup before making a face and setting it down -- too much cream, not enough sugar, "Sorry, man, thought it was mine." Listens to Dean's thoughts, increasingly jumbled, jumping around each other, frantic, catching on _Sam's mouth right there, my fucking coffee, shit, this is worse than the other day at the gas pump_.

It's a heady rush as they get in the car, the beat of _Sam, Sam, Sam_ getting louder and more desperate, but Sam knows this is as far as he's taking it, knows he won't actually _do_ anything, just like he didn't _do_ anything about the nightmares of Jess on the ceiling. Dean's thoughts are shuffling, fluttering, falling like daisy petals, _he loves me, he wants me, he wants me not. I'll do it -- I can't -- I shouldn't, god help me_, and Sam feels like he overdid it when Dean whispers, "Are you doing it on purpose?"

"Doing what on purpose?" he snaps, defensive. "Dude, what is _with_ you today?"

Dean's walls tighten, barricades snapping in place, _silver bullets -- good for werewolves, revenants, sometimes fae, depending on the kind_ wrapping around like barbed wire. Dean's face goes harsh, pale, and he feels like the worst kind of asshole for letting it get this far. Puts his hand on Dean's shoulder. Schools his face into a concerned expression.

"You ok?"

He is blindsided by Dean's hungry mouth on his, Dean's hot, taut body suddenly pressed into his space, Dean's fingers greedily tugging onto his hair. He can't breathe, can't move, battered down by the words, unsaid but bleeding between them, knocking against his mouth, _please, please, please, Sammy, don't push me away, please, don't know what I'd do if_ \--

\-- god help him, Sam doesn't.

\---

Dean sucks him off right there on the side of the road, and Sam fists his hands in his sleeves and closes his eyes. He can hear his own pathetic little noises, hitched off whimpers and groans, and doesn't know what's worse: that he's letting Dean do this, or that Dean's good at it, smooth lips and hot tongue, slick spit greasing the way for just the right amount of suction. He can't help but compare it to head he's gotten before, and fuck, Dean is good. Maybe the best.

The thought makes him ill, but he's coming anyway, coming into his brother's mouth and Dean drinks it down like it's ambrosia. Like it's the best thing he's ever tasted in his life, and the jumble of thoughts in his head calms, slows, recedes.

Sam insists on driving, after, because it seems like the thing to do. He catches Dean's eyes on him from time to time, burning holes in his flesh -- but can't hear a word.

\---

He lets Dean touch him again once they get into the motel room. He doesn't touch back, but it seems enough for Dean, just being allowed this much, this soon. He doesn't seem to notice that Sam's watching him with stony eyes. He's just content, happy in a way Sam hasn't felt him be since he started reading his thoughts at all, and he can't imagine taking that feeling away.

Dean's never felt like this, not after any red-lipsticked girl or long-fingered boy, not even after Cassie -- Sam knows. Sam was right there with him. Dean never looked at Cassie like she was god and all the saints combined as he fisted his own cock, and Sam grits his teeth at the sight of shiny-slick skin sliding through Dean's hand, but can't look away.

Because there's satisfaction. There's power in knowing that this is how he makes Dean feel, this is how he makes Dean react, teeth clamping down hard on his lip, little sobs and grunts ripped from his throat. It's fucked up. It's wrong. And it's easier, easier to watch his brother jerk off than to touch him back, and Sam wonders what the hell he is going to have to do next time as Dean throws his head back, paints his hand and the bedspread thick pearly white.

Because there will be a next time. Sam doesn't need to listen to his brother's words, spoken or not, to know it.


End file.
